


our love keeps the things it finds

by calicofern



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Asexual Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Multi, No beta we kayak like Tim, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Touch-Starved, empath!Martin, feelings are hard, slight telepathy, the fact that that is even a tag continues to astound me, the inherent romanticism of being a touch-starved empath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28524273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicofern/pseuds/calicofern
Summary: "He’d always been a sensitive child, going above and beyond and out of his way to please everyone around him. He saw the strain between his parents and took it upon himself to fix it. He couldn’t remember much of his father, but he does remember a gentle hand ruffling his hair for the last time, followed by the deepest grief he’d ever known. He’d sobbed for weeks afterward, totally unaware that not all of that feeling belonged to him."or, self-indulgent touch starved empath Martin Blackwood vs. the mortifying ordeal of being known. look we're all working some things out here.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	our love keeps the things it finds

“Tim, I’m trying to _work_ ,” Martin said, under his breath so there was almost no chance the man himself would hear. 

Another _ping_ made him jump – had his phone always been this loud? – and the purposeful clearing of Jon’s throat finally made him pick up his phone. 

**Tim (WORK)**

maaartin

maaartin

look, you don’t have to tell us what happened in there but at least let sash + me buy you a drink tn

**Me**

OH my god tim pls don’t make this into a thing

but yes ok sure drinks

I’m fine. Honestly i just feel bad for the statement giver…

**Tim (WORK)**

excellent!!!

\+ don’t feel too bad, it’s not like the poor guy will know that the bossman’s a huge fucking dick

Martin shook his head in Tim’s general direction, locking his phone. Jon had been rude, sure. Dismissive, definitely. But it wasn’t _his_ fault the “statement” Martin had asked him about was unusual, even for them. 

He’d rehearsed his little speech, monologue really, in his head all the way to work that morning. He'd been casual enough about it, too; standing in the doorway of the broom closet that somehow passed for Jon's office, the picture of idle curiosity.

_Hi, Jon? Could I ask you about something? It’s an old statement, recorded normally and everything, I just wasn’t sure if you’d ever heard of anything like it before and wanted to follow up._

Jon had been quick – heartbreakingly, earth-shatteringly quick – to dismiss it out of hand. 

“Absolutely not. That one goes in the discredited pile with the rest of the sham psychics. I’m not sure why you felt compelled to bring this to my attention, but in future please handle this sort of thing yourself,” Jon hadn’t even bothered to look up. 

“Right. Sorry. Okay, cool,” Martin muttered, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. 

Sasha must’ve seen the split second of dejection he allowed to cross his too-broad face, because she jammed a sharp elbow into Tim’s ribs that somehow meant that it was Time to Cheer Up Martin!

(He didn’t love how quickly they’d developed a code for that sort of thing, but it was touching nonetheless.) 

More than anything, he really just didn’t want to talk about why that "statement" had gotten him so out of sorts. 

* * *

The saddest part of his whole _thing_ , Martin often thought, was how long it had taken him to realize that he’d had the gift. His was not a particularly touchy family, and in retrospect he understands why, but it still meant that his particular power went undiscovered for far too long. Really, it was only after his father had left that he’d suspected something was amiss. 

He’d always been a sensitive child, going above and beyond and out of his way to please everyone around him. He saw the strain between his parents and took it upon himself to fix it. He couldn’t remember much of his father, but he does remember a gentle hand ruffling his hair for the last time, followed by the deepest grief he’d ever known. He’d sobbed for weeks afterward, totally unaware that not all of that feeling belonged to him. 

He’d had to drag the details out of his mother, piece by excruciating piece to get the full picture. Even then, she was not as specific as Martin would’ve liked; later he would realize that that was because she didn’t understand it any more than he did. 

“Your father,” She’d said, placing undue emphasis on the ‘f’ sound. “has left us with nothing but the world’s worst family heirloom.” 

From that point on, she avoided touching him whenever possible. As an adult who had spent more than his fair share of time spilling out confessional poetry on any scrap of paper he could manage to spare, he understood that that was probably because she didn’t want him to steal her feelings from her. They were hers and hers alone, and on some level she probably thought that if Martin knew how she truly felt about him then he would abandon her just like his father had. He could sympathize. The idea of knowing (or someone else knowing) what he was thinking or feeling at any given time was totally abhorrent. 

There was something poetic in this unfortunate double inheritance, but every word he'd tried to put to it had felt too contrived. Still, he learned at an early age that people didn't like their feelings stolen from them, and that he probably didn't want to know what they felt about him anyhow. The few times he'd accidentally brushed hands with his mother ("Martin, honestly. Stop trying to get into my head. You need to be more careful.") it had been... unpleasant to say the least. He never wanted to think too hard about it, blaming the bulk of her sadness and anger and disgust on her illness, but there's only so much explaining away a person – a child, really – could do. 

Still, he _craved_ touch. He found himself incredibly jealous of the easy hugs and high-fives his peers took for granted, but he couldn't bring himself to ask for them himself; it was no use pretending that he couldn't feel what they were feeling, his face always did give far too much away. So he withdrew. He dreamed and fantasized and wrote poetry in isolation. He made sure that people knew not to touch him, not that many ever tried, but he didn't want to take advantage of the kind souls who didn't understand his utter wrongness, his selfishness. His mother always said he asked too much of people, so he quietly resolved to never ask anything at all. It was around this time he discovered the quiet refuge of tea – if he closed his eyes and wrapped his hands around a warm mug, he could almost pretend the warmth radiated from another person. Someone who wouldn't mind him and all he asked for. 

In the back of his mind, he'd hoped that his ability to feel the feelings of others with the slightest touch was more of a superpower than a curse. It was all a little too _Star Trek_ for him, but still. He made it his personal mission to devour any content he could with the barest hints of touch telepathy. That's what he called it, anyway. But those books and movies mostly reinforced the idea that if he ever, ever told anyone what a freak of nature he was, he'd be locked up and studied (and probably dissected). Not exactly the most comforting idea. 

That was, he supposed, what drew him to the Magnus Institute in the first place. Sure, he needed the money and had done some semi-convincing lying on his CV (what a degree in Parapsychology involved that qualified him for the job, he would never know), but more than that he thought that if anyone had any answers for him about what he was, it would be them. He knew he wasn't a ghost or anything spooky like that, but there _was_ something slightly supernatural about the whole thing. He had really been looking forward to finding some answers, something concrete and indisputable to reassure him that he wasn't totally alone. 

And then he'd met Jon. 

Jon, who had worked at the Institute for years but never believed any of the statements. Jon, who should've been the first person Martin could confide in, but immediately proved that he wouldn't be anything close to receptive. Jon, whose crisp accent and brusque manners and sharp eyes drew Martin in even as they pushed him aside.

He didn't want to think too hard about why he felt so drawn to someone who clearly didn't like him (of course, he knew. Of course he understood _exactly_ where that impulse came from.)

Martin knew that as much as he wanted to touch Jon, he never _ever_ wanted to know the man's true feelings about him. This was something he resigned himself to live with. 

* * *

Tim and Sasha were appropriately sympathetic, as always. They'd gone out to the usual Friday night pub after work; as promised, Martin hadn't had to pay for a single drink. That, probably, was why he was hurtling over the edge of absolutely wasted with alarming speed. 

"It's just," He moaned into the overpriced IPA Tim had chosen for him. "It's just that he _never_ believes it. Any of them. It's like... why even work at the Institute in the first place?" 

"Overpopulation of sweater vests, maybe?" Sasha laughed. She had a nice laugh. She probably felt nice feelings, too. Happy ones. 

"Or maybe he's just trying to distract us from the fact that he's a ghost himself! Divert suspicion for maximum spookiness," Tim wiggled his fingers for effect. 

"You'd think he'd be able to at least fake some concern. He couldn't even spare an, 'oh Martin that sounds so very interesting and difficult. I hope that young chap is alright.' Honestly. I feel bad for anyone who comes to give their statement in person," Martin's impression of Jon left something to be desired, but it got the job done. 

"Seriously, Martin, it's sweet of you to care so much but Jon is just... Like that. He has been since I've known him. Try not to take it personally," Tim reached to put a hand on Martin's wrist and made contact before Martin could pull away.

_fondness-exasperation-friendship-tipsiness_

Martin sputtered, feeling all the blood in his body rush to his face.

“Sorry! Sorry. Are you… Martin are you okay?” Tim’s words rushed out as Martin’s head swam with everything he’d been feeling. Martin was better than okay. He was _great_. 

“Fine! Fine, sorry. Yes. All, All good here. Thanks, Tim,” He mumbled. 

Tim’s feelings were pure electricity, a shot of tequila that warmed every part of him. And some of those feelings had been about Jon, sure, but Martin was fairly sure that some of them had been about him, too. And it felt nice, better than nice. Distantly, he knew he would berate himself for the transgression in the morning, but it wasn’t his priority now. 

“Sorry, it’s just I know you don’t like to be… touched. I wasn’t thinking. Totally my fault.”

“No, no please don’t apologize. Really. It was, ah. Nice? Nice. Lovely, really.”

Tim tilted his head, confused. Sasha looked similarly befuddled. And Martin looked at them, his _friends_ , the first proper friends he’d had in a good long while, and it all came rushing out. He couldn’t be sure how coherent he was, given the humid, hoppy thrum of IPA circulating in his blood, but he tried his best. He gave them the abridged version, to be sure – leaving out the bits that would earn him nothing but pity and sideways glances. But he told them about how his dad had had the gift too, his whole side of the family, and it got to be too much for all of them so they just became a family that didn’t touch. How nervous he’d been all through school, how he didn’t want to siphon off anyone’s feelings without them knowing about it. How he wanted to know more about his condition. How he’d finally worked up the courage to ask Jon about it, and how it’d stung when Jon had been, well, Jon. 

Tim and Sasha, for their part, were very patient with him all things considered. He’d expected them to interrupt, at least once or twice, but they hadn’t. Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked for so long, or so openly, completely uninterrupted. And when he was done, Tim gave him a small smile and stretched out his hand, palm open.

“I know you said you don’t want to siphon off my feelings, but you can have some again if you want them,” He said, more serious than Martin had come to expect.

_interest-confusion-amusement-appreciation-tenderness_

“Tim that’s– wow, that’s so _strong_. Are your feelings always so strong?” Martin sighed. 

“Man of many feelings, me,” Tim winked, hand withdrawing. Martin felt the absence immediately, missed it. 

Sasha watched the exchange, looking like she was puzzling something out but hadn’t quite gotten it yet. 

“How does this work, exactly? Can you read thoughts, too? Or just feelings? How deep does it go?” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. 

“Not sure, really. I mean, it’s only the feelings, not individual thoughts or anything like that. It feels pretty surface level. The longer I… feel something, I guess, the deeper it can go, but it’s not– I mean, as far as I know I can’t tap into like… childhood trauma or anything like that,” Martin shrugged, leaving out the very pertinent fact that he hadn’t ever been given the opportunity for sustained touch like that, not in his memory. Not since he was a child, surely. 

“Interesting. Would you be able to, say, tell if I’m lying or not? Like a polygraph test?”

“Dunno. Never tried.”  
  
Sasha’s eyes sparkled as she held out her hand, gesture identical to Tim’s from moments ago. 

_curiosity-appreciation-worry-care-intrigue_

“Okay,” Martin said, letting it all wash over him. Was she worried about him? That’d be nice of her. He wasn’t sure if anyone had been worried about him before. “Tell me a lie.”

“I absolutely adore white chocolate. Can’t get enough of it. Also, I’m allergic to grapes and my least favorite color is red.” 

Martin considered, feeling the edges of her emotions for any discrepancies. 

“Nope, I don’t think I can tell… although, maybe if you were nervous about lying? Like, if you didn’t want me to know something, I could probably feel that, but it’d have to be a really big secret or something. But then it might just be something you’re nervous about telling me, so I don’t know how I’d be able to really tell.” 

“Interesting. I’ll try to think – OH! I know. I have never had a crush on Timothy Stoker,” Sasha smiled, cutting her eyes over in Tim’s direction. Martin could feel something shifting, something curling up at the edges, something

_nerves-affection-self consciousness-giddiness_

“Ah, yep. Uh, definitely felt... I mean, I don’t know if it’s my place,” He trailed off just as Tim’s mouth fell open.

“SASHA, you never! Wait, like when? Now? Were you planning to tell me that before we _died of old age_?” Tim looked positively flabbergasted, which only made Sasha (and Martin, in turn) feel more fond.

“Hush, Tim. I’m using the scientific method over here,” She smiled, the picture of serenity. “Martin, that is… that’s absolutely amazing. I’ll take my hand back now, but I think I speak for the both of us when I say I believe you. And I’m sorry that Jon didn’t.”

Again, Martin missed the contact. It was overwhelming, to say the least, but _god_ he hadn’t expected how pleasant it would be to feel what his friends were feeling. He wanted to curl up between them like a cat, just basking in the utter glow of them. 

"Seriously, Martin. I mean, what does Jon know? I once saw the man eat dry ramen noodles right out of the packet, no seasoning or anything, the absolute madman. No clue what he's thinking, about this or anything else." Tim grinned, still glancing at Sasha after every third word or so. 

Martin felt tears welling up behind his eyes, and took a big glug from his glass in an effort to push them back down. He could cry later, but right then he had to soak up the feeling of people actually believing him, accepting him, not thinking he was some kind of freak or alien or weirdo. They'd just ... _believed_ him, easy as that. 

"I know, I know. I just... care? What he thinks? For some reason? But you're both... I just really... thank you. Seriously. Both of you. I, I haven't really ever told anyone outside my family before." 

"We're glad you did, Martin. And we won't tell Jon, not unless you ask us to." Sasha patted his shoulder sympathetically, and Martin wished his ability worked through layers of clothing. 

"Okay, now that we've got Martin's X-Men powers out of the way, can we please get back to you having a _crush_ on me, Sasha James?" 

The night was, at least for Martin, a bit of a blur after that. Between several more rounds of drinks and easy, affectionate touches when his co-workers felt like sharing the joy, he was absolutely buzzing, all the way back to his flat. So what if Jon didn't believe him? Probably for the best, anyway. Martin could just have this, this feeling of being seen and known and accepted, and be perfectly content. 

He knew, in that deep and quiet and true part of his mind, that he wouldn't be as lucky as all that. But for that moment, in the perfect shining bubble of their evening out together, he could hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Riches and Wonders" by The Mountain Goats, but the version I had on repeat while writing this is actually Eliza Rickman's cover, so feel free to check that out for an extra dose of vibes
> 
> this is my first fic for this fandom (and first time writing anything for a while) but this idea entered my head and physically would not leave so here we are! I have the rest outlined, I'm planning on sticking relatively close to canon (and I'm having some Ideas about how this concept maps onto s4 in particular) but I wanted to go ahead and post this first section as a motivation for getting the rest of it done. 
> 
> Also credit where credit is due, I remember coming across a similar concept in a Les Mis fic a thousand years ago, I am currently looking for it but when I find it I will link it here! 
> 
> I'm on tumblr (I guess? do we still use that?) as calicofern feel free to come yell at me on there
> 
> comments and kudos very much appreciated, i'd love to know if this makes any of y'all as emo as it makes me lol


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